“My kids can’t even play outside with all the drunk driving!”
“How is anyone supposed to sleep with the constant partying?”
“I can hear the renter beside me singing in the shower! She screeches like a barn cat!”
Taylor gasps. Sputters up at me.
The chuckle builds deep inside of me, too big to contain. And there I am, laughing in the middle of the sidewalk when I’m supposed to be investigating a murder. Can’t help it, either. It feels fucking great to laugh. I can’t even remember the last time I did with anyone but her.
Taylor wrinkles her nose at me, but there’s pleased humor in her green eyes. Eyes I can’t seem to look away from. When she lifts onto her toes to speak in my ear, I automatically lean down to meet her halfway. “You’ve already broken your promise to never let anyone make fun of me ever again. Next you’ll be calling me Shaquille.”
I drop a kiss onto her pouted lips. “How about I buy you an extra scoop of ice cream, instead?”
She avoids my next kiss. “Is that the best you can do?” A playful shove at my chest. “Go to your meeting. I’ll meet you at the ice cream place in an hour.”
I point to the sidewalk between my boots. “Come back here and kiss me.”
Those teeth sink into her bottom lip and she shakes her head no.
Tease.
She’s teasing me. Making me want more. Making it impossible to not take…everything.
God help me, It’s working.
Chapter 15
Taylor
* * *
“You are such a badass,” I whisper to myself, a noticeable spring in my step. Not only did I ride a Harley this morning, I avoided suspicion from the most suspicious man I’ve ever met. He thinks I’ve come to the library to check out the latest bestseller—and actually, I might, just to kill two birds with one stone—but what Myles doesn’t know is that the county clerk’s office is attached to the library and it’s my true destination.
There is a significant part of me that just wants to check out a few books and go meet Myles for ice cream. Engage in none of this deception. But earlier on the beach, I decided to help solve this case, any way I can. For me. For Myles. If there is something I can do to stop him from punishing himself over the past and maybe, just maybe, consider becoming a professional investigator again, I want to do it. I have to try and make a difference.
And seven years of listening to Etched in Bone, I know one thing. There is always an overlooked clue. In the initial stages of an investigation, the bigger components like timelines and opportunity and physical evidence are the primary concern, but it’s when the detectives circle back to the beginning and look deeper into the killer’s personal connections? When they pick apart the paper trail? That’s when the murders get solved.
Myles mentioned that Lisa Stanley stands to inherit the properties owned by her brother. That definitely gives her motive to kill him. Money is oftentimes a prime motivator.
But here’s the thing.
It’s not cheap to buy property in Cape Cod. Especially on the ocean.
And Oscar Stanley was a retired postman.
Something about that doesn’t add up. It’s possible he had family money, like an inheritance or perhaps an injury settlement that helped him purchase these in-demand properties one by one, but those are details that should be explored. This is where I can be useful. This is where I can prove to myself that I’m not the kind of woman who sits back and lets everyone else take risks while I blend in with the background.
Shoulders set with determination, I move through the stacks all the way to the back of the library and push through the glass door separating it from the county clerk. “Hello,” I say brightly to the woman behind the desk. “I’m looking for property records.”
She nods, picks up a pencil. “Address?”
“There are multiple addresses.”
“Of course there are,” she sighs.
Twenty minutes later, I have my printouts. Using my hip to open the glass door, I walk back into the library and find a quiet table in the biography section, spreading Oscar Stanley’s property records out in front of me. I check my phone to make sure Jude hasn’t called or texted—and he hasn’t. Neither has Myles. Good. The menfolk are occupied.
I’m free to snoop.
I drop my phone onto the table and go through the first record, which belongs to the property where Oscar was murdered. Nothing is odd about it that I can see. His name is the only one listed as an owner. It’s when I move on to the next record that my spine begins to tingle. Under owner name, there is Oscar Stanley.